Multiverse: Deathstroke-Chapter 437: Aquaman Learns Detective Work

Aquaman showed up too late.

He'd followed Batman's orders, heading underwater first to tackle lingering issues—especially that bizarre structure they'd found down there, which left him full of questions.

After tweaking the ocean currents, he swung by Atlantis for a quick peek. It was still home, after all.

Mera was running the place like a champ—seemed like his absence didn't matter.

Then he bailed. He didn't catch Flash about to build an amusement park—he was off to grill Poseidon about the sea floor.

That mystery building screamed a mashup of Atlantean and Amazon vibes. Only a god's lifespan could unpack that history.

Poseidon, like his brother Zeus, was a chronic slacker.

Zeus chased tail; Poseidon just craved a mortal life.

Both had walked the path of transcendence once, chasing unmatched power—beyond even the Creator.

But millennia later, they'd barely budged. So they gave up.

No hope left—might as well quit.

They ditched transcendence for hedonism and family drama.

Every pantheon was like that—endless soap operas. Olympus just threw the loudest party.

But transcendence was a one-way street, and the blazing lighthouse screamed that to Arthur now.

Poseidon didn't want to outshine anyone anymore—he wanted normal.

Too bad the newbies wouldn't let him block their path. He'd be outdone.

Arthur charged into the fire. The lighthouse was fully engulfed.

He wasn't Mera—no water-bending to douse it. Plus, this fishing port had no big fish around to command.

Still, he banked on his brawn, rushing in for clues or anything else.

Almost nada. Just a blood puddle on the floor—no sign of Poseidon's body.

Smoke choked the tower. Burning chunks crashed from above. Arthur felt his skin drying out fast—miserable.

But he scored one gem: a ship-in-a-bottle, tucked behind a desk corner.

Arthur smirked, eyebrow cocked. He'd picked up a few tricks from Batman in the Justice League. His detective game was leveling up, right?

This "ship-in-a-bottle" trinket wasn't just decor—it was a compass. Poseidon had once told him it pointed to the last secret of Atlantis's greatest hero, Arian.

Nearby, in a subtle spot, a bloody scrawl—likely Poseidon's last words:

"Follow the ship."

A hint? Arthur rubbed his beard. Use the bottle to track something down?

"Is this a game?" He bolted from the lighthouse—hair singeing—clutching the bottle and diving into the sea to cool off.

Gods reincarnated after death, so he didn't clock the gravity right away.

Arian, Atlantis's big hero, was said to have shielded it from aliens way back. Arthur knew the name—heard he was legendary—but the details? Fuzzy at best.

Could you blame him?

Half-breed here. Grew up topside 'til his teens. Even after claiming the Atlantean throne, who had time to dig through ancient archives?

He could head back and check now, but that meant hitting the palace library. Guards would spot him, Mera would find out, and they'd brawl.

He didn't want to fight his wife—she'd win the argument. Living at the Hall of Justice was pure avoidance—marriage woes.

He eyed the bottle-ship. Fine, he'd follow it. Compass, right? Get there, solve the riddle.

But he needed a ride.

Back in town, he called Batman. The Hall's teleporter zapped him to D.C., but the ship's bow still pointed south.

He'd need transport to chase that heading.

"Diana around?" Arthur sloshed into the command hall, dripping wet, leaving dark footprints.

Batman was glued to his screens as usual. When Aquaman walked in, he was mid-surgery—remote tools on some guy.

Arthur raised a brow but kept quiet.

This dude—Starman, maybe? Dropped into the Hall from a time rift earlier, rambled about the League losing three members this time, then passed out.

Now it looked like Batman was dissecting his brain.

Arthur couldn't fathom Batman's methods—didn't want to. Batman wouldn't kill; Arthur trusted that.

He just needed Diana—hitch a flight for his errand.

Superman? Gone. Martian Manhunter? Out. Cyborg? Nope. All the flyers were AWOL except Wonder Woman.

Batman kept at his work, unfazed. With Mister Miracle still MIA, he'd stepped up to play surgeon.

Starman's brain was half-missing—Batman was digging into it.

Over at Deathstroke's end, Su Ming had handed his phone to Grodd—total radio silence now.

"Diana's here, but I'd suggest giving her a break," Batman said calmly, eyeing Starman's pristine brain cut—Lex Luthor's signature all over it.

Lex's handiwork. Textbook.

If Batman said Wonder Woman was tapped out, Arthur just nodded. Could he borrow the Batwing instead? Maybe with Nightwing or Kate Kane as pilot?

Right then, Diana stormed into the command hall, fully armed.

Her face was thunder—someone must've torched Paradise Island. She looked ready to hunt vengeance.

"No rest needed. Spill it, Arthur—where you headed? I'm with you."

She swung her sword a few times, wind whistling, proving her stamina was fine.

Arthur regretted not learning to fly. Diana's face screamed "I'm pissed" in bold.

And Diana mad? Way scarier than Mera mad.

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She'd clearly overheard him and Batman—no dodging now. So he spilled about Poseidon's murder, showing them the bottle-ship.

Batman perked up at "Olympus," signaling it was Diana's turf. He had bigger fish frying here.

Diana was fed up. More Olympian crap—hadn't she had enough?

Donna was back, dragging little Zatanna for healing.

Donna had sprung Diana from lockup, filling her in on what went down.

Hecate was gone—erased from the world's concept. Some alien idea had hijacked magic's old slot. Now spellcasters paid a price to wield it.

And she'd heard Deathstroke wasn't coming back—flew off with Albedo.

Batman's answer? "Dunno." Deathstroke was off-grid; the sorceress was cloaked in hell-magic—both untraceable.

It irked Diana to no end.

Knocked her out twice, soft-locked her once, jailed her another, and now he didn't even check in—just jetted off with the mage chick?

She'd geared up to throw down with Deathstroke when he returned.

Now Poseidon's mess piled on. Was it ever over?

She instinctively wanted to nope out, but Aquaman—this big lug—couldn't fly. Seeing his helpless mug, she nodded.

Atlanteans lived off the sea. Poseidon's death hit them hard—Arthur worrying made sense.

Given today's chaos, Batman buzzed Firestorm to tag along.

Arthur and Diana were melee bruisers—no ranged game. Firestorm, a tier-two hero, patched that gap with energy blasts.

So when they rolled out, Arthur sat in the transparent jet, squatting horse-stance with Diana.

Firestorm, too cool for that pose, flew solo.

Living nuclear reactor—fast enough to match top-tier heroes. He could blast energy like a Lantern or tweak stuff at the atomic level.

Of course, it was a "no-kill" power—only worked on lifeless junk.

Hard to say if Batman siccing this "moral poster boy" on them doubled as babysitting.

Diana and Arthur together? Mercy wasn't their style. Firestorm was like a fuse—if Batman saw his radiation wink out, it'd mean they'd gone dark, killed everyone, and he'd counter them.

He'd never admit Diana's mood partly stemmed from him whipping out that anti-Diana projector earlier.

She knew he had kryptonite for Superman—joked it was their wedding ring.

But him pulling tech to counter her? That stung when it was her turn.

She got his paranoia—saw the need, especially after today's mind-control mess.

Logic was one thing; feelings were another.

So Diana piloted the invisible jet, stone-faced, while Aquaman fiddled with the bottle, head down, clueless what to say.

Frost glazed her face; murder glinted in her eyes.

Arthur opted for silence—quiet, pretty boy mode.

Finally, at the South Pole, the bottle-ship twitched—rocking like it hit choppy waves.

Antarctic winter meant polar night. They'd have to land to peek under the ice.